From Zero To Hero
by ceilidh65
Summary: In the aftermath of his betrayal, Garibaldi fights to repair his friendship with Sheridan. It isn't going to be easy, for either of them.
1. Chapter 1  The Enemy Within

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Hello, and welcome to my first B5 fanfic. I'm pretty new to this series, but it's already made quite an impression on me - especially the events in season four that lead to Garibaldi's betrayal of Sheridan, and the fallout from it.

I can't help but wonder, though, how they repaired their friendship. There's certainly quite a jump between John's reaction towards Michael in Between The Darkness And The Light and his reaction to Michael's little... um... welcome home surprise in The Deconstruction Of Falling Stars. So I've written this series of short stories to address that.

It starts as a missing scene from Between The Darkness And The Light, and goes through until John's inauguration as President in No Compromises. I hope you enjoy, please let me know if you do - and special thanks to Sue for all your encouragement :o)

From Zero To Hero

Chapter One - The Enemy Within

As pursuing gunfire behind him faded away, Stephen Franklin allowed himself a trace of a smile. Having a P12 telepath on your side had its plus points, especially when you were running for your life, with blasts of plamsa sizzling alongside. All Lyta had to do was let their pursuers come into sight, place the suggestion of crippling pain into their minds, and they went down like groaning ninepins.

Thanks to her, they'd now reached Felicia, and some extra guards that Number One had sent in after them, without any serious problems. At least that gave them some breathing space, a better chance to pull off the seemingly impossible.

But their problems weren't over yet. A rush of adrenalin had given John Sheridan the strength to stagger out of his cell, into the safe hands of his rescuers. But as Stephen had worriedly noted, he was relying on the Resistance guard beside him to keep him upright - Garibaldi's offer of help shoved away with a glare that could have melted lead.

Garibaldi's reaction was equally predictable. And, for Stephen, even more worrying. He saw frustration on his friend's haggard face. Exhaustion in an indefatigable body. And, most worryingly of all, he saw defeat in Michael's eyes. Realization, as he backed shakily away from his furious captain, that everything he'd just done to save John Sheridan's life had counted for nothing. The forgiveness he needed so badly just wasn't going to come.

Death, though, at his captain's hands, a thought once so thinkable, was still frighteningly likely. Fuelled by pure hatred, John Sheridan had blasted that guard into the next dimension. As the fury on his face had revealed, he wouldn't hesitate in doing the same to a once trusted friend, and now hated enemy.

Little wonder, then, that Michael Garibaldi now retreated to the back of the group, refusing to meet the one pair of sympathetic eyes that followed him. And when John Sheridan's strength finally ran out and he slumped to the ground, he didn't dare step forward to help.

Then again, he wasn't in great shape either. His own exhaustion was overwhelming him now. And not for the first time, no doubt not for the last, Stephen Franklin wished he had six pairs of hands.

Two patients – no, two _friends_ – badly needed his help. Now he had to decide who to help first. But then wasn't it typical of Garibaldi, the _real_ Garibaldi, to quietly save him the trouble?

"I'm – I'm fine, doc," he insisted, although the way he was swaying sideways suggested otherwise – exhaustion, pain, and God knew what else, all too evident in a voice that lacked all its usual strength.

"John first, he – he needs you more than I do-"

With no time to argue, in truth still stunned by the day's rollercoastering events, Stephen just nodded – years of practice enabling him to treat one patient while keeping a subtle eye on another.

Garibaldi was no stranger to injury, of course. Hell, he landed himself in Medlab so often, he had his own bed! But this. No, Medlab's most regular customer had never gone through _anything_ as bad as this.

Beneath all those sickening bruises, his face was much too pale, shining under a veil of sweat. And that blankness in his eyes, the greyness around them, was _not _a good sign. It wasn't good at all.

His first thought, naturally, was dread that Bester still had control over his friend's brutalised mind. But then the blank eyes cleared a little. A flash of that famous spirit made a welcome reappearance. And no amount of brutal torture could falsify the concern in Garibaldi's next, inevitable question.

"How – How is he?"

"He'll be fine, Michael. Like you, he just needs rest," Stephen assured him, patting his shoulder – concern returning as he felt feverish heat radiating from it, even through the thick layers of his friend's uniform.

Turning him around, with a worrying lack of resistance, Stephen cursed in realization. In the rush to rescue Sheridan, there'd been no time for fancy stitchwork on that stab wound. That knife had been big, too, piercing deeply into Garibaldi's back, and… damn, damn, _damn_!

Running through these tunnels hadn't just re-opened those sutures, it had exposed the wound beneath. And if blood could pour out of it, as freely as it now did through his fingers, then bacteria from these filthy tunnels could just as easily leach in – the infection they'd cause as potentially lethal as more blood lost from an already weakened body.

Cursing, though, wasn't going to do any good now. For Michael Garibaldi, it was no good at all.

A body that was already on the brink of collapse was no match for the germs that had invaded it – their infection overcoming it now, forcing it to surrender as Garibaldi's strength finally deserted him.

Dropping deadweight to the ground, it took all of Stephen's reflexes to catch and carry him down – an appalled yell for help bringing their Resistance escorts running to his side, their guns drawn, aiming straight for Michael Garibaldi's head.

They'd assumed the obvious, of course, just as he'd done. Assumed that Garibaldi had 'turned' again. He couldn't blame them. He knew, all too well, that Bester's 'powers of persuasion' held no limits. He'd stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The loss of innocent lives was merely a 'consequence'.

But as that sticky wetness between his fingers told him, their lives weren't the ones under threat now. Michael Garibaldi was badly hurt, bleeding out through his hands. He needed help, and quickly.

To Stephen's horror, though, those bloodied hands, and the body they cradled, counted for nothing. Even as Garibaldi lay helpless and bleeding in front of them, the help he needed so badly didn't come. Despite all they'd seen, even their own leader's endorsement of what he'd been through, Michael Garibaldi was still a traitor – its unfairness, and rising frustration, finally causing Stephen Franklin's patience to snap.

"Damn it, he's risked _his_ life to save _yours_!" he yelled, glaring around a circle of impassive faces. "Your own leader's seen what he's been through, and… hey, you want his blood too? Still?Well, you've had enough of it already, but yeah… help yourselves, there's still _some_ of it left to go around-"

Stung either by the doctor's fury, or their own consciences, two of them finally came forward to help him lift Garibaldi's deadweight body behind some sheltering trash-cans. And when directed, still in quiet fury, to turn him onto his side, neither of them dared to argue. Instead they moved, wisely quickly, out of Stephen Franklin's path as he set to urgent work.

He had a life to save. A very _important_ life. Michael Garibaldi's life. As experience had painfully taught him, it was going to be one hell of a fight.


	2. Chapter 2 To Hell And Back

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Thanks for the reviews - they're really encouraging for me, especially as this is my first B5 story. I hope you enjoy this next chapter too, as Stephen finds one of his patients to be a bit of a handful. There's some angst for the good doctor too - and plenty more to come for both John and Michael. Well, I'm a generous soul, I like to share the suffering around :o)

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Two - To Hell And Back

As he glanced around him, Stephen Franklin had to admit that he was impressed. For a renegade outfit, the Resistance had put together a surprisingly well equipped sickbay. The storage units were a bit shabby, perhaps, but the drugs and medical supplies inside them were both plentiful and effectively up to date - a real blessing for two sick and injured patients who now owed their lives to them, and the bravery of those who'd secured them from Clark's brutal regime.

Taking up a fresh set of vials, Stephen then crossed over to one of the cots, keeping a close eye on John Sheridan's vitals as he prepared the next dose of his treatment. He knew from bitter experience that drug withdrawal tore you physically, and mentally, apart - hence the relief he felt as the captain's face remained calm in peaceful sleep.

He'd still feel like hell when he woke up, of course, but at least this treatment would flush out the drugs that had been used on him. Then again, he _had _died already, so however horrific this ordeal had been - well, not to trivialise either, but if he could survive death, he'd surely survive this too.

Yes, he _would _survive this, thank God, but… _damn_, it had been close. _Too_ close.

Especially for you, Stephen thought, glancing towards the other cot beside him – his smile fading slightly, from still raw realization of what Michael Garibaldi had been through.

Torture. Brainwashing. Brutal punishment for the betrayals that he'd been forced to commit. None of those horrors had almost killed him, though. For that, Stephen was still cursing himself. Damn it, he should have been more careful with that stab wound. Taken more time to clean it out.

More than that, though, more than anything else, he should have considered the damage beyond it – the loss of internal blood that had continued, insidiously unseen, until it was almost too late.

If Garibaldi's collapse hadn't prompted that second, advanced scan… no, he couldn't think about that. Losing a patient was never easy. Losing one so needlessly, so damn stupidly, would have been unbearable.

Instead he stood in silent vigil beside his friend, hoping this would ease a still troubled conscience. It wasn't easy. Still grey and gaunt from surgery, Michael Garibaldi's face was still a mess. Most of it was swollen, or cut, or bruised – a painful legacy of what his betrayal had cost him.

That was just part of it, though. Colleagues who'd become captors had been brutally thorough. Convinced, in misguided ignorance, that they'd caught their traitor, they'd shown him no mercy. Tied up, held down, totally powerless to protect himself, Garibaldi hadn't had a chance against them – and Stephen had never seen him so desperate, or terrified, as he'd been when he'd begged Lyta to help him.

He'd never seen fear like that in Michael's eyes before. He prayed he'd never see it again.

As his conscience relentlessly reminded him, his own emotions had contributed to that fear – his threat to kill his friend, two times over, made in the heat of a bitterly regretted moment. Maybe that's why Garibaldi still lay in a silent sleep that went beyond its expected time. He should have been awake by now, but – well, right now, reality was just too painful for him to face.

Even under sedation, the horrors of what had been done to him were still reaching him. His eyes had been flickering for several minutes, but now the nightmare was tightening its grip. A groan of pain escaped him. A foot twitched, then kicked out in weak, futile resistance.

When it kicked out again, Stephen knew he had to act quickly to stop the agony it would cause – moved by something more than a doctor's compassion to rest a gentle hand on Michael's arm. He had to know he was safe. He had to know that one friend, at least, knew what he'd been through.

"Easy, Michael, you're okay. We know the truth now, it's going to be okay-"

That remained to be seen, of course, but these quiet words of reassurance still seemed to work. Or maybe it was something else, something less comforting, that pulled his friend back to sleep. The hand that had gripped the side of his cot now relaxed, sliding back, as if guided by an unseen force, to rest flat at his side.

The movement had been unnaturally robotic. But then, Stephen bitterly remembered, that's what Michael Garibaldi had been for the last several months - a living, breathing robot, totally powerless to stop the forces that had turned him against those he cared about, and that had damn near gotten him killed.

Even as he settled again, Stephen knew that Michael Garibaldi's personal hell was still far from over. Damn, what must he have been thinking, that even his closest friend had refused to believe him?

And what would happen if the only person whose belief in him mattered refused to give it? If that forgiveness refused to come, then – well, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Suddenly more tired than ever, Stephen sighed, wearily pinching that tiredness from his eyes – a croaking call of his name so faint that it took several seconds for him to turn to its source. And in two sleepily puzzled eyes, Stephen Franklin found both a smile and a surge of hope – a gentle hand instinctively restraining him as John Sheridan frowned up at him and tried to sit up.

"Easy, John, you're safe now. You're going to be alright-"

Still drugged and disoriented, it took Sheridan several seconds to nod and smile back at him. Considering what he'd been through, Stephen wasn't expecting much more response than that. And it was certainly a relief when he accepted the syringe against his neck without flinching. As Stephen had found out the hard way, a drugged up and unrestrained captain had one hell of a punch on him.

Preparation and anticipation, he'd dryly chided himself as he'd rubbed the bruise out of his jaw. For this latest injection, he'd made sure that John had been lucid enough to recognize him _before _he'd started it.

A look of stricken panic, though? A frantic gesture towards his throat as he struggled to sit up again? Well, every doctor had seen these warning signs enough to be prepared - one arm proppinng his patient upright while the other hand grabbed the closest thing to a bucket that it could reach.

Watching someone heave their stomach up in front of you was never pleasant, of course, but at least it meant that the anti-toxins were getting to work now, clearing all that junk from John Sheridan's system. A rueful smile suggested that John knew it too and, in spite of its discomfort, was equally grateful.

But then, as his head cleared and he looked curiously around him, the captain's smile vanished – his eyes hardening, in justified fury, against the friend who'd so cruelly betrayed him. And when he finally spoke, the bitterness in John Sheridan's voice ran deep, and unforgiving.

"What… the _hell_… is he doing here?"

He had every right to be angry. Stephen knew that, but part of him still railed at its injustice. The forgiveness that Michael Garibaldi needed so badly was further from him than ever, and - no.

No, he'd suffered enough already. Stephen couldn't stand by, _again_, and let him suffer any more. Even if John refused to believe him, he _had _to tell him the truth. He had to set the record straight.

Pulling up his chair to the side of John's bunk, Stephen dropped wearily onto it. He'd taken an oath not to cause pain, but… yes, this was going to hurt, and hurt one hell of a lot.


	3. Chapter 3 The Truth Hurts

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Well, here we are with the next instalment. For those of you who enjoyed the angst in the last chapter, there's more to come here, as John starts to realise what Garibaldi has been through.

Thanks again for the encouragement, and I hope you continue to enjoy :o)

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Three - The Truth Hurts

Silence was good sometimes. Some called it golden. But for Stephen Franklin right now, it was worrying. Two of his closest friends had just gone through hell. A cruelly enforced betrayal had divided them. Now he had to put the record straight, and rebuild the trust that had been so brutally broken.

"Look, John, I know what you must be thinking. What you're feeling right now," he said at last – knowing that was the understatement of the third age, long before Sheridan's snort of unmoved disdain.

He had to keep trying, though. There was too much at stake for him to give up at the first hurdle.

"You're angry, and bitter, and I don't blame you. But Michael's as much a victim in all this as you are. He didn't betray you, John, at least not willingly. Lyta will vouch for him, and I saw it too. She saw _everything_ when she scanned him. When he went missing for those two weeks, he was taken by the Shadows. And when they were finished with him, they turned him over to Bester-"

As he'd expected, and hoped, the mention of the ruthless Psi Cop had provoked another reaction – a frown of realization as John glanced past him, quietly studying the battered figure beside them.

Despite the drugs that still fogged his mind, it was starting to make sense. Garibaldi's irrational paranoia when he'd returned from his disappearance. The steady disintegration of a seemingly unbreakable friendship. The inexplicable anger that had consumed their friend, for no apparent reason. That shock resignation. And, of course, everything that had happened to them both since.

From his changing expression, Stephen knew that John Sheridan was starting to understand. Just to make sure, though, to try and lessen the horror of that understanding, he pressed gently on.

"And you _know_ him, John. He'd step in front of a phaser cannon before he let anything happen to you. He'd have fought Bester with everything he had. But against such torture. Such relentless pain… well, you know what Bester's capable of, John. You've seen what he's prepared to do to get what he wants. You saw what he did to Talia-"

"And what he'd have done to Michael," John finished for him, in the same outraged disgust.

He'd known, all along, that Stephen was right. Michael Garibaldi would _never _willingly betray him. Imagining how he'd been forced to do so, what that bastard had done to him, to break him down – well, any revenge that Garibaldi wanted to take, legal or otherwise, would have his blessing.

Anything he did, though, to make the arrogant creep suffer – well, John sadly realised, it would not be enough. However painfully imaginative that revenge might be, it would be _nothing _against what he'd endured.

What _they_'_d_ endured. Damn it, why hadn't they killed the bastard when they'd had the chance?

'_Next time_, _Bester_. _Next time-_'

He had to take a deep breath now, and another, to fight down the anger that had surged through him – another glance at the haggard face beside them leading him to an inevitable, if misguided, conclusion for how all those cuts and bruises had got there.

"My God, Stephen, what that bastard's done to him-"

It would be so easy to say nothing. To let Bester take at least some blame for their friend's suffering. But Stephen Franklin's conscience, still haunted by the part he'd played in it, refused to let him. He'd heard Michael Garibaldi's cries of pain from that basement, but done nothing to intervene. That failure to help his friend, as those cries had faded away, would haunt him for years to come.

"No, John, that was the Resistance. They, uh, thought he'd betrayed them too," he said at last – meeting appalled eyes with silent shame in his own, for the moment that still haunted his conscience.

"They were all ready to kill him, John, for what they thought he'd done to you, _and_ to them, but… well, luckily Michael still had the strength, and the presence of mind, to let Lyta scan him, to prove what Bester had done to him-"

"And the courage. Yes, that's _our_ Michael," John agreed, casting a tired smile towards his friend – pride for Michael Garibaldi's selfless bravery lifting away his anger, if not the concern beyond it.

"But what it's _cost_ him, Stephen. Will he be alright?"

It was the breakthrough Stephen knew they both needed. He seized it, with two _very_ grateful hands.

"With rest and time, John, yes, he'll be fine. You'll _both_ be fine," he assured his friend – sharing a hopeful smile as a soft groan beside them brought them both a welcome moment of levity.

Even on his sickbed, Michael Garibaldi's '_you_'_ve_-_gotta-be-kidding_-_me_' sarcasm refused to stay down. More seriously, another groan meant that he was starting the long crawl back to consciousness.

Beyond their relief at his recovery, two anxious friends knew how painful that recovery would be. He'd need help to deal with what had been done to him. As ever, John Sheridan would take the lead. Against all earlier odds, whatever they'd face to defeat their shared demons, they'd face it together.

Not yet, though. As the captain was quickly discovering, he wasn't quite ready for that challenge yet. He still felt like hell himself, already nodding his agreement for Stephen's subtle hint that he had to rest.

But as he settled gratefully back on his bunk, Stephen noticed a welcome change on his captain's face – a smile for the friend who'd betrayed him, but then almost died in the fight to bring him home.

Safe in the Resistance stronghold, they could heal now until they were strong enough to be evacuated. And when they _did_ go home, John Sheridan knew his friend and lifelong protector would be there at his side.


	4. Chapter 4 From Hell Into Hope

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Thanks so much for the continuing support for this story. Every review that I've had for it has been so positive and encouraging, and that's been much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter too, as it sets the scene for a bit more angst for our heroes. Actually, a _lot _more angst ;o)

Enjoy!

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Four - From Hell Into Hope

Draining his glass, John Sheridan smiled as he compared his favourite drink with its Martian equivalent. You didn't get those pulpy bits, like _proper_ orange juice had, but… no, it was still pretty good. A useful medical aid, too. The headache that had been niggling at him for the last hour was almost gone.

The concern for an injured friend, though, or thoughts of what they'd both been through – no, John now sadly reflected, the best damn orange juice in the universe couldn't get rid of those.

Garibaldi was still unconscious, too, and that was starting to get both him _and_ Stephen worried. Yes, he'd groan now and then, just as he was doing now, but then he'd fall silent again. The winces on his face would slacken, then vanish, and his body would relax again, into total stillness. And as both of them knew, a still and silent Garibaldi wasn't just unnatural, it was downright _wrong_.

It was as if he were fighting some unseen enemy, and realising that he just could not defeat it – the most obvious candidate for that enemy causing all happy thoughts of orange juice to disappear.

Bester.

He might have released it now, but he'd still left his sadistic mark in Michael Garibaldi's mind. Memories of what had been done to him, and done to so many others afterwards, would forever haunt it – a sudden cry of helpless rage causing John to start now, and wince at what that cry represented. A lifelong hell that Michael Garibaldi could never escape from.

Before he could call for him, though, Stephen appeared in the doorway and strode to Michael's cot – explaining his magical timing with the dry exasperation that only one accident-prone patient could invoke.

"When it comes to Garibaldi, I've got my _own_ psychic powers-"

"Yeah, I bet-" John agreed just as dryly, although the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. Instead he studied the frettishly shifting figure beside him more in concern than amusement.

"He's getting real restless now. I think he was having a nightmare-"

"After what he's been through, I'm not surprised-" Stephen agreed, his own smile fading – sharing his captain's concern now, voicing their knowledge that safety and a freed mind would bring their friend little comfort.

"And when he wakes up, he knows he'll have to face another. Memories of what Bester did to him. The knowledge of what he did to you. I think that's why he's refusing to come out of it, he's…"

"…caught in two hells, and Bester's refusing to let him out of either-" John finished for him, determination joining the anger on his face now as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot.

"Well, to hell with that, _and_ Bester. Michael deserves better, _much_ better, than that-"

He was still in rough shape himself but, as Stephen dryly noted, that wasn't going to stop him. Despite what he'd been through, John Sheridan wasn't going to stay in that cot a second longer than he had to.

Hightailing it out of his sickbed before he was ready. Now why did _that_ seem familiar?

'_When all this is over_, _Garibaldi_, _we_'_re_ _gonna have a little chat about corrupting our captain-_'

Even as he rolled his eyes, though, Stephen was too relieved by this gesture's importance to stop him. Instead he kept the lecture to gentle advice as he helped John into a chair next to their friend's cot.

"The first person he'll want to see when he wakes up is you. Just don't overdo it, okay?"

"Yes, Stephen, I know. And don't worry, I won't-" John agreed, smiling back at him – so grateful for the blessing of a doctor, _and _friend, who knew when to make himself tactfully scarce.

Turning at the doorway to glance behind him, Stephen felt a weight of worry lift off his shoulders. Even if he couldn't see it, he could still sense John Sheridan's smile. Hear the warmth in his voice.

More to the point, that voice held vital forgiveness for the person who needed, so badly right now, to hear it – guiding Michael Garibaldi out of hellish darkness, into a world where _both_ of them could start to heal.

"Hello, Michael-"


	5. Chapter 5 Truth And Consequence

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Hm, this 'missing scene' from one episode seems to have taken on a life of its own! The next chapter will be another missing scene too, but just for that one chapter, before the story gears up for the big finale.

Thanks again for your support here, and I hope you enjoy this latest instalment :o)

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Five - Truth And Consequence

'_Hello_, _Michael-_'

He'd recognise that voice, and those eyes, anywhere. He could hear, and blurrily see, the warmth within them. But right now, Michael Garibaldi couldn't face either. Just couldn't accept the gentle forgiveness that he needed so badly.

Besides, the light above him was unbearably bright, so he used that as the reason to turn his head away. It took another call of his name, a firm hand on his arm, to make him find the courage to turn it back.

"It's alright, Michael, it's over. We're safe now, and Stephen's told me. He's told me _everything-_"

He'd only stressed one word, but it was enough to make a spark of hope appear in Garibaldi's eyes. Even so, the depth of pain and helpless rage beyond still made John swallow hard. They merely hinted at the horrors that his friend had suffered. And when Michael finally spoke, his voice was barely beyond a whisper.

"Ev'rything? So – So you know what happened to me? What he… what _he_ did to me?"

"Yes, Michael, I know. I know now what you've been through," John nodded, the relief from this breakthrough causing his next words to rush out before he'd fully considered them.

"I know this wasn't your fault, Michael. I know Bester programmed you to… well, to… uh-"

"B'tray you-"

The voice was still faint, thick with pain and exhaustion, but it still made John Sheridan smile. It was Michael Garibaldi's voice, telling him the straight, simple truth. Freely speaking his mind. And if he could face what he'd done, with such honest courage, that had to be a good sign.

"Yes, Michael. You betrayed me. But it wasn't your fault. It was _not_ your fault-" he said at last, stressing that vital word again, making sure his friend caught its meaning, and believed its sincerity.

"And I can't begin to imagine what you've been through, Michael. I can't imagine what he did to you to make you do it-"

"Yes, you can. You've – You've just been through it yourself," Michael reminded him quietly, a reassuringly familiar frown tugging at his mouth now as he cast critical eyes over the haggard face beside him.

"You look like I feel-"

"That bad, huh? Gee, thanks-" John shot back, although he couldn't stop himself from grinning. Damn, if anyone had been born to be a protective big brother, it was his ex chief of security. And when Michael smiled, if so hesitantly back at him, John felt relief rush through him. There was still a hell of a lot of mutual healing to do between them, but at least they were talking. This reunion between them was proving much easier than he'd expected.

Yes, they were going to be okay now, they could put this damn mess behind them, and –

"So when are you getting back to the barn?"

– aw, _hell_!

He'd said y_ou_, not we. Singular, not plural. Not the happy ending that John Sheridan had planned for.

He'd assumed they'd both return to B5 together, to stand side by side again, united once more against the enemy. As a still pained voice now told him, Michael Garibaldi thought differently.

"Aw, c'mon, John, there's no way I can go back there with you. Not now, not… not after this-"

There were other reasons too, of course – a personal crisis that the warmth of restored friendship finally coaxed out of him.

"'sides, Lise is missing, she – she disappeared after Edgars was murdered, and… well…"

"…you've got to stay here to find her," John finished for him, smiling again as he studied his friend. Even if it threw his hopes and plans for a total loop… yes, he proudly reflected, this was more like it.

_This_ was the Garibaldi he knew – selfless, as stubborn as hell, and determined to do whatever it took to find the woman he loved. So yes, maybe it best for him to leave Mars now, because all hell was about to let loose across it.

"Well, Michael, if anyone can find her, it's you," he said at last, making sure that he had Michael's full attention, before saying the words he knew he needed so badly to hear.

"And when you _do_ find her, Michael, the barn door will be open. For _both_ of you-"

It was a precious moment of healing reconciliation between them, a moment both of them needed – a moment broken now by a brisk voice as Number One delivered some double-edged good news.

"Captain? The White Star's in range now. As soon as Dr Franklin clears you for transport, we'll clear a shuttle to take you aboard-"

Smiling his thanks, John waited until she'd gone before turning back to meet Michael's eyes – wry amusement, and the deadpan question that followed, lifting the awkward tension between them.

"Jeez, can you imagine her and Ivanova in a room together?"

"Only from several light years away," John retorted, gratefully sharing tired chuckles of laughter – squeezing Michael's arm again, making it clear that this parting of the ways was a temporary measure.

"Well, I'd better find Stephen. Take care of yourself, Michael, and I'll see _you_ soon. _O__kay_?"

He couldn't force his friend to say yes, of course. John Sheridan was too fond of his teeth to dare try. But then Michael smiled, a faint imitation of its usual form. But it was a smile. And from that gesture alone, John Sheridan knew that peace and quiet on his station, such as it was, wouldn't last for long.

When the time was right, and when he felt ready, Michael Garibaldi _would_ be back where he belonged. At, and _on_, his side.


	6. Chapter 6 Holding On, Letting Go

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: As mentioned in my last note, this chapter will be a one-off missing scene from Rising Star. We saw in that episode that Garibaldi stays on Mars to rescue Lise, and they're such a great couple, so I wrote this chapter to cover Michael's return to B5. Then it'll be back to John and Michael as they come to terms with what they've both been through.

Enjoy! :o)

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Six - Holding On, Letting Go

She'd forgotten how good it felt to wake up, each morning, and find herself snuggled tight against him. When they made love, it felt like the whole universe celebrated with them, and in its afterglow – well, the comfiest pillow in the galaxy, its softly thumping heartbeat, would lull her slowly to sleep.

Just as he'd done last night, the night before that, and just like yesterday morning, she'd wake now –

– and find cool sheets beneath her fingers, emptiness where a snugly warm body should have been.

Lise's eyes snapped open, all happy thoughts about her lover swept away by all too familiar dismay. He wasn't there. Michael wasn't there, and… damn it, not _again_!

But why? The only time he'd left without saying goodbye was when they'd argued about B5. And as rumpled bedclothes reminded her, there'd been no arguments last night, just _lots_ of joyous wriggling, and even happier laughter.

He'd assured her, too, that he was in no rush to return to the station that held such a claim over him – all of which made this emptiness beside her all the more puzzling, and hard for her to understand. But as she sat up and looked around, Lise smiled, happily relaxing back into her pillows.

Leaning against the window, hands tucked in the pockets of his pants as he stared up at the sky – yes, even in the semi-darkness of a candle-lit bedroom, she'd recognize that stance anywhere. Only _he_ stood like that. And only he could make such a casual, slouching pose look so _damn_ sexy.

If Mars ever published a menswear catalog, Michael Garibaldi would have to be its first cover-boy. He certainly had the height for it. And, Lise noted in lascivious pride, he had the body for it too.

Maybe tonight, once she had him safely helpless with laughter beneath her, she'd tell him that – then hang on for dear life as he rolled her through the bedclothes in sweetly glorious revenge. And when it came to payback, as she knew so happily well, he could be deliciously creative.

More immediately, though, as Lise now noticed, he had more serious thoughts on his mind – much of them, she guessed more soberly, relating to that fresh, still healing scar on the right side of his back.

He'd told her only briefly about how it had got there, and Lise had known better than to pursue it. When he'd worked all the anger, and bitterness, and blame out from his mind and conscience – yes, when all that dangerous emotion had been released, Lise knew that he'd tell her the rest.

For now, though, it was just this quiet study of the stars, and that very special place in the sky – the tiny part of space, beyond his sight, beyond even the most powerful telescope, where the _other_ love of his life waited for his return.

For once, though, there'd be no arguments about her hold on him. No attempts to force him to stay. If returning to B5 helped him find peace, helped him to heal from whatever he'd just been through – no, however much she'd miss waking up beside him, Lise knew she had no right to stop him.

For the sake of a very special friendship, for the peace of mind it would give him, he _had_ to go back.

It wouldn't be easy, though. A deep sigh, a slight slump in those massive shoulders, told her that. Returning to B5 would be a crucial part of his healing, but it would also be hard for him, _and_ painful.

Time for a comforting hug to reassure him. Time to hold him, enjoy him, while she had the chance.

Sliding out of bed, Lise padded across to join him, so quietly that Michael was only aware of her presence when she looped her arms around him. Sensing how much he'd appreciate it, Lise hugged him closer, until awkward uncertainty melted into the smile that could turn her to jelly.

"Aw, hon, I hope I didn't wake you," he said at last, frowning a little at the sly mischief in her reply.

"Hey, I'm not complaining. I had a _great_ view to wake up to-"

Loving the puzzled curiosity on his face, Lise hugged him tighter, encouraging him to continue – guessing, from his reluctance to do so, that he was dreading another round of an old, familiar argument.

"Lise, I – I know what I said, the other night, but… well, I just-"

"…you have to go back," Lise finished for him, dryly thinking how marital that sounded.

They fought, they teased, they bickered and argued, and now she was finishing his sentences. Hell, why bother with the formailities? It felt like they'd been married for years already.

Judging by the wry smile on his face, he'd clearly thought the same thing. Yet uncertainty still shadowed his eyes – and Lise loved those eyes too much to let such doubt and awkwardness blight them for too long.

"I know, Michael. You have to go, you need to go back. It's okay, I understand-" she said at last – reaching to cradle his face, stroking his cheek, until that wonderful smile returned to its full, irrestistible strength.

She'd stay here, just holding him, for as long as she could. And when the time finally came for him to leave – well, she'd remember this moment, this silent promise between them, and savour its memory.

She'd miss him like hell, of course. She always did, and always had. But this time it would be different. This time she understood _why_ he was leaving her. And Lise knew that, in time, he _would_ return.


	7. Chapter 7 The First Duty

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Okay, after that brief detour to Mars, Michael is back on B5.

At the start of The Deconstruction of Falling Stars, he's seen organising that wonderful reception for John and Delenn. John's clearly forgiven him at this point, and everything seems fine. But as I watched that scene, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if someone else hadn't. So with some help from my evil plot bunnies, I came up with this alternative scene.

It also gives me the chance to put the boys in one of my favourite settings - the baseball field that you see in Knives.

There'll be some serious soul searching for both Michael _and _John in the next chapter, but the angst starts here - enjoy!

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Seven - The First Duty

In a crowd of joyous well-wishers, two faces among them could so easily have passed unnoticed. John Sheridan had noticed them, though. And what he'd just seen had made his blood silently boil.

A mindless, drunken idiot had either missed his station-wide message explaining Michael Garibaldi's actions, or he'd chosen to ignore it. Now he'd taken his life in his hands, and told Garibaldi _exactly _what he thought of him – his miserable existence saved only by the fact that, for once, B5's ex chief of security just couldn't fight back.

The Michael Garibaldi of old would have grabbed him by the throat and swiftly taught him the error of his ways. Instead, visibly shaken, and instantly broken, he now shoved his way through the crowds, desperate to find a way out – an anxious yell of his name lost among cheering applause that now felt sickeningly hollow.

Silently cursing every god and alien deity that he could think of, John hurried out after him – noting, in grateful relief, that Zack Allen had seen it all too, and was as seethingly furious as he was.

He'd already taken the moron aside for a 'quiet word' behind the bar, and John had to smile at that. Michael Garibaldi had taught his protégé everything he knew, including the art of 'the quiet word'. So assuming there was anything left of this idiot when he returned, he'd deal with him later, but for now – no, for the sake of a friend who'd be going through undeserved hell, Michael had to come first.

If he _wanted_ to be found, of course. Michael Garibaldi knew this station like the back of his hand. And if anyone could lose himself in its infinite number of nooks and crannies, it was him.

Luckily, John Sheridan knew him equally well now. He knew where he'd go when he needed to vent. So when he approached the games suite and heard the unmistakeable crack of a baseball bat – yes, as he cautiously slipped through its door, John allowed himself a smile of grateful approval. Far better for his friend to whack those balls into spatial infinity than resort to a far deadlier relief.

That's what he'd dreaded. That in his fury and pain, Michael would succumb to his other lifelong demon, and crawl into the nearest bottle. It was a measure of his strength, and courage, that he'd come here instead, to stay sane, _and_ sober.

And how, John thought, watching another blur of white soar past second base, and out of sight beyond. He'd hit that ball so hard that, if not for the suite's safety field, it would have flown clear through the station.

Little wonder, then, that John stayed silent and wisely out of the way as several more shot past him – waiting until Michael stopped, leaning on his bat to get his heaving breath back before, still cautiously, he stepped forward.

Even at rest, he could feel the fury radiating from his friend, and he had no idea how he'd react. As Stephen had once dryly told him, Michael Garibaldi's mind, rather like his moods, was like a fritzing pinball machine. You never knew which way those thoughts, or moods, would go. They just flew at you from all directions.

_Someone_ had figured it out, though. Bester had breached that brilliant mind, and ruthlessly broken it. John could see it now, in the haunted eyes that stared back at him, then slid away in helpless shame.

An outburst of ignorant stupidity had brought it all back. Every damn moment. Every damn memory. Just as he'd managed to pull his life back together, so that crucial stability crashed back down around him.

Watching that devastation wreak emotional havoc across Michael's face, John's heart went out to him. No wonder he was such a cynical agnostic. No merciful god would _ever_ put him through this.

That mindless idiot, too, probably owed his life to Michael Garibaldi's selfless bravery, and – well, as he strode forward to give his shoulder a heartening squeeze, John made him a quiet but heartfelt promise.

"Michael, I'll see to it, personally, that no-one will _ever _treat you like that again-"

He'd meant it, too. Unfortunately, the universe had decided that today was yet another dump on Garibaldi day. Damn it, of all the times for Delta Squadron's ball team to turn up for some extra practice!

Glaring them back through the door, and probably to the nearest bar, John then sighed – realizing, from the resigned silence beside him, that it was pointless to stay here now either. This was a public suite after all, with little chance of the privacy that both of them now needed.

Still, if there was one thing he'd learned on this crazy station, it was the art of skilful compromise – determination too, that let him lead a troubled friend out of his refuge with thankfully little resistance.

"Come on, Michael. Let's finish this where _no-one_ can interrupt us-"

If there _had_ been a smile, the warring emotions on Michael Garibaldi's face had already crushed it out. But at least he was still walking, albeit in silence, towards another source of sanctuary – managing a glance of startled surprise as John tapped his link and spoke firmly into it.

"Sheridan to C and C. I'm going off grid for a while. Barring armegeddon three, no, I repeat _no_ interruptions-"

Breaking the connection, he then placed his hand back on Michael's shoulder – meeting the stunned eyes beside him with a nonchalant grin for the smile that eventually followed. Captaincy had its privileges, of course, but the duty of friendship still ranked right up there beside it – and until Michael Garibaldi had defeated his latest demons, that duty _had _to come first.


	8. Chapter 8 Past Regrets, Future Fears

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Thanks so much for the latest reviews! There's three more chapters to come, and I promise there _will _be a happy ending! But for this instalment, both John and Michael try to come to terms with what they've been through.

My whump-bunny was in especially whumpish mood for poor Michael, so I've added a few ideas on what Bester did to him that weren't covered in the series. And, of course, John has his own issues to deal with. So for all you angst lovers, I hope you enjoy!

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Eight - Past Regrets, Future Fears

His quarters were spacious enough, and luxurious compared to other parts of his station. But compared to the ballpark they'd just left, they were still tiny, with a _lot _of breakable furnishings. As he poured their drinks, John quietly hoped that his still unsettlingly quiet guest remembered that. Even without his bat, Michael Garibaldi and a gently tossing baseball could still cause a _lot_ of damage.

Not for the first time and, John thought, pray to God not the last, Michael seemed to uncannily read his mind – a wry smile tugging at his mouth as he put the ball down, safely out of harm's way, and accepted a glass of all curing orange juice in its place.

Smiling back at him as he re-took his seat, John felt much of his own tension give way to cautiously hopeful relief. His friend was still clearly upset – hell, so was he – but the blue eyes were thankfully calmer now, and his breathing had also settled down.

Even so, John didn't push, or force him to start talking. He knew it would be stupid to even try. Michael Garibaldi would only start talking when _he_ felt ready to do so, not a second before, and –

"I'm sorry, John. For this, for - for everything else, I'm… I'm just so sorry-"

– and his usually impeccable timing, John thought in gulped mid-swallow, really _sucked_ today.

Keeping that thought for a more appropriate time, he then chose an equally wise path of response. If confession was going to heal Michael Garibaldi's soul, then… well, it would be good for his conscience too. The moment to face all those niggling 'if onlys' had finally come.

"I'm sorry too, Michael," he said at last, offering his startled friend a gently apologetic smile as he rose from his chair and came to sit next to him on the couch. This apology wasn't going to be easy, and Michael had to see that he meant every word of it.

"Zack told me, he tried to warn me, _so _many times, that… well, _he_ knew something was wrong. And I can remember too now, that you were acting so strangely, so irrationally out of character, that… well, if I'd just said something, Michael, or done something about it then. If I'd taken more notice of Zack, or myself… damn it, I could have stopped this, Michael. I could have saved us _both_ from going through this-"

If he was expecting Michael to agree with him, then… hell, he really should have known better. To his surprise, his friend was smiling back at him, in a silence that hid unspeakable horrors.

Waking on a bed, cocooned in restraints that stretched against his hands but refused to break.

A voice beside him, warning that he'd be stubborn. That he'd resist. That he'd fight like hell against them.

Silence, then pain. Relentless, mind breaking pain.

His own voice, rising into a helpless, terrified scream.

His body arching against the restraints that instantly tightened around him, yanking him back down. Then another voice, speaking words that had made his shuddering blood run cold.

"He'll soon learn not to-"

Swallowing hard, Michael forced those voices out of his mind. Took a long drink of juice to wash away the bile in his throat. And beside him, John Sheridan anxiously watched, and waited.

"No, you couldn't, John. Neither of you, or Stephen, could have stopped this," he said at last, staring thoughtfully into his drink, as if seeking inspiration, or composure, for what he softly said next.

"Bester wasn't just using me to prove a point, John, or to get back at me for all the crap I'd given him. He had _complete_ control over me, John, and he knew it. He knew he could have ordered me to blow my brains out, or kill you, or Stephen, or Ivanova. Hell, he could have made me blow up the whole damn station, John, and I'd have done it. I'd have destroyed everything and everyone I've ever loved, without a second thought-"

Pausing for a moment, both to regain his composure and push more horrific memories out of his mind, Michael then sighed - taking several deep breaths before he quietly confronted another.

"I couldn't stop him, John. As he so sweetly told me, he knew only _he_ could release me when he got what he wanted. So even if you'd known what he'd done to me, _none_ of you could have done anything to help me. He had _complete _control over me, John. Even if you'd tried to help me, he'd have made sure I didn't get it-"

Too shocked by what he'd just heard, and what he'd just pictured in his own mind, John just nodded – waiting for them both to collect their thoughts, before quietly voicing the next, inevitable question.

"He _told_ you, Michael? You _knew_ what he'd done to you, even before Lyta scanned you?"

He might have welcomed Michael Garibaldi's smile, were it not for the bitter words that eventually followed.

"Yeah, I knew. I mean, Bester wouldn't be Bester if he didn't leave me a real nice gift to remember him by-"

That 'gift' was still painfully raw. It took Michael several seconds to fight back the horror of its legacy. But he couldn't do it. The lifelong knowledge of what had been done to him could _never_ be forgotten.

"But you know the worst part, John?" he finally continued, bitter fury still etched into every word. "From the second that bastard activated me, I – I could _see_, and _hear_, and _feel_, _everything_ I was doing. I was _there_, John, inside my own head, _all_ the time. I could see my life falling apart around me, taking _you _down with me. And all I could do was bash my hands against my own brain, knowing I could do _nothing_ to stop it-"

He was on a roll now. And, John Sheridan worriedly noted, it was an increasingly emotional one.

"And when you blasted that guard apart in front of me? Back in those tunnels, when we got you out of there? I – I knew you were seeing _me_ in his place. I could see it on your face, John, you were ready to kill me, and at that moment… yeah, this die-hard agnostic was almost praying you would. Believe me, John, you'd have done me one hell of a favour-"

For twenty clear seconds, John could only stare at his friend, too stunned to speak. Yes, he'd gone through hell too, but only for two, mercifully drug-dulled weeks. Michael Garibaldi's hell had lasted for several months, and _he'd_ been fully aware of its horrors the whole time.

No wonder he was still struggling to take it all in. But for Michael Garibaldi, the facts were as crystal clear as the threat that silently terrified him - its unthinkable scenario finally tumbling out in an unstoppable, almost desperate, torrent of words.

"And yeah, I know that bastard's finished with me, for now, but he could still take me over again. If - If he _does_, John, I won't be able to stop him, so… look, if it happens, you've gotta promise me… if you realize, even suspect, that I've turned again, you've _got _to promise me you _will_ take me out-"

Staring back at his friend, John Sheridan didn't know whether to be proud of such bravery or openly horrified – his inevitable protest cut back into silence by a resolutely raised hand and even more determined voice.

"No, John, I mean it. If I pose _any_ kind of threat to you, or Delenn, or anyone else on this station… please, you've gotta promise me you'll stop me, 'cause I… John, I – I _can_'_t_ go through this again-"

Still too stunned to speak, John finally nodded, in reluctant agreement for what he'd just heard. He'd expect nothing less from his friend, of course, and he also knew that he'd have made the same decision. It would be typically heroic of him, too, to sacrifice himself for those he loved and cared about, but – no, damn it, there _had_ to be a better way for Michael Garibaldi to prove his loyalty, and regain his self respect, without getting himself killed.

And from these anxious musings, fate was duly called.


	9. Chapter 9 Cometh The Hour

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Well, we're almost at the end of this story! From its title, you'll already know that Michael does, eventually, find redemption for what he's done.

For me, that redemption for him in the series came in No Compromises, when he saves John and Delenn from Clemens' assassination. The idea for this story really came from that episode. So with some dialogue from two of my favourite scenes, some that you _didn't_ hear, and a bit of Presidential payback, here's my version of Michael Garibaldi's finest hour.

Enjoy!

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Nine - Cometh The Hour

As that uniquely liveried Starfury streaked away with its prey, John Sheridan still couldn't believe his eyes. If Michael Garibaldi ever gave up protecting B5, everyone on it, and most of the universe too, he'd make one _hell_ of a pilot.

_If_ he survived what he'd just done, of course. As he listened to Michael's C&C feed on his link, John realized, in silent horror, that was increasingly unlikely.

"C&C, I can't hold him. If this cockpit breaches, I'm screwed-"

'_My God, he's gone out there without his flight suit_!'

C&C had clearly realized the same thing, since they now swung into action to give Michael Garibaldi some vital, butt-saving backup.

"Assailant ship is targeted-"

Even as the defence grid set its sights, Michael knew they weren't in position yet to let it take Clemens out. The bastard was a damn good pilot too, fighting him all the way. It took another gut-twisting turn to bring their locked ships back into the grid's range, while more screens in front of him flashed into the red. And just to make his day, his onboard computer was being especially helpful.

'_Unsafe manoeuvre_-'

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know-"

_'Cockpit breach_ _imminent_-'

"Aw, shut up-"

Five feet. Ten more. Borderline safety zone. So twenty more feet, just to make sure, before he called in to verify.

"Are we clear?"

"All clear-"

"Hallafragginglujah_-"_

Thanking a god that he could now _almost _start to believe in, Michael released the grapple hook - his next words leaving no doubt, in the command crew's or anyone else's mind, that he'd just sealed Clemens' fate.

"Here he comes-"

With a final, helpful nudge, come Clemens did – but not for long, as half the defence grid emptied their cannons into his flank. Five seconds later, he hadn't just been winged for capture, he'd been blasted clear out of existence, exploding in a dazzling flare of light that gave John Sheridan's inauguration an unplanned finale.

In truth, though, these unexpected Presidential fireworks were the last thought on John's mind – and he could tell from the emotion in Delenn's eyes that her thoughts were full of the same name. Their friend and lifelong protector who'd risked his life, yet again, to save theirs.

Michael.

G'Kar, though, was unmoved by the significance of this moment as he regained their attention – and rarely had the inauguration of a new President, on earth or otherwise, been sealed so quickly.

"You want to be President?"

"Yes-"

"Put your hand on the book and say 'I do'"

"I do"

"Fine. Done. Let's eat-"

Watching him stride away, John and Delenn stared at each other, then dissolved into helpless laughter. If they didn't get to that buffet soon, there'd be nothing left, but… no, right now, neither were hungry. Their celebratory meal could wait. Gratitude for the friend who'd just saved their lives couldn't.

And for John Sheridan, this latest brush with death had, strangely, given him a blessed opportunity – a brisk message to Zack Allen all that he needed to organise another ceremony that was long overdue.

Just like his mentor, B5's new chief of security made those arrangements with faultless speed. By the time Michael brought his faithful Daffy in for re-docking and disembarked, the stage was set. And yes, Delenn's hug as he emerged from the flight bay was a bit of a surprise, but he was still too wired to think any more of it, or wonder why John Sheridan had an especially broad grin on his face.

Even when his friend steered him, kinda firmly, towards the Zocalo, the penny still failed to drop, giving John the wickedly smug satisfaction that payback for that surprise party was about to be repaid, _big _time.

For once, too, he knew more about covert ops than his soon to be head of covert intelligence – another surprise to complement the special honour that Michael Garibaldi was about to receive.

To John's amusement, he was still completely clueless about it, even as they entered the Zocalo – the blast of applause that greeted their arrival so loud that Michael actually stepped backwards and, to John's delight, started to instinctively join in.

He'd assumed, naturally, that this cheering crowd had gathered to greet their new President. But then he realized that John had gently nudged him forward again. He, too, was now heartily applauding him. And the penny finally dropped.

He swallowed. _Hard_. If not for John's strategic positioning behind him, with Zack to his left, and Stephen to his right, he'd have shot through the nearest wall. Instead, resigned now to his fate, he turned to face the wickedly grinning mastermind behind it – making a mental note to give John Sheridan's shower settings some covertly sneaky tweaking.

"Hey, I told you, Michael," John chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his friend's struggle not to grin back. "If I could find a way to pay you back for that… um, _quiet_ honeymoon homecoming-"

"…you'd find it-" Michael finished for him, laughing too now as he held up his hands in light-hearted surrender. "Okay, Mr President, I guess that makes us even. Truce?"

"Absofragginglutely-" John agreed, happily joining in the roars of laughter that rose around them – steering his friend onto a hastily improvised podium while gesturing for the crowd to quiet down.

He'd always loved speeches. And this one would give him a special buzz of pleasure.

"Well, as you've clearly heard, my inauguration was rather more eventful than planned," he said at last, growing more serious as he turned back to Michael, giving him all the respect this moment deserved.

"And as he's so often done in the past, as he's done for _all_ of you here, Michael Garibaldi saved my life. It's thanks to his bravery that I'm here now, and to his loyalty that this station has survived this long with me. So now I give you the hero not just of this hour, but countless and uncredited hours before it. And for that, Michael, on behalf of this entire station, I thank you, more than words can say-"

As another salvo of applause erupted around them, blue eyes met brown in a glance of mutual healing. And in that glance, and a grateful smile, John Sheridan knew his most trusted ally was finally back on his side.

Back where he belonged. And back to stay.


	10. Chapter 10 A New Birth Of Freedom

From Zero To Hero by ceilidh

A/N: Well, folks, here we are - the end of my first B5 story. Thanks to everyone who left reviews to encourage me, and I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

My next one will be another series of missing scenes, this time featuring Michael and Lise as they start their new life on Mars. But until then, I'll leave you with John and Michael as they reflect on what they've been through, and share some fun along the way.

Enjoy, and I hope to see you again soon.

From Zero To Hero

Chapter Ten - A New Birth Of Freedom

If all days on his station ended this well, or this peacefully, John Sheridan would be a _very _happy President. Okay, so one of Clark's disgruntled cronies had tried to kill him, twice, but – well, he'd failed. Twice. Now he could safely relax, and learn how his new head of covert intelligence had tracked him down.

*whack*

In between home runs, of course. And Michael Garibaldi was in especially impressive form tonight. He'd clearly seen the Dodgers latest scores, and decided to show his team how it _should_ be done.

Watching another perfect hit sail towards outfield, John sighed, ruefully twirling his redundant bat. He _could_ try and pull on his new Presidential privilege, of course, but he already knew how _that _would end. A raised eyebrow. Polite silence. And the 'yeah, right' smirk that only one person could get away with.

Especially now, John thought, casting a patiently humouring grin towards his friend. He'd get away with it _e__specially_ now.

Michael's support and loyalty to him had always redeemed him from that infamous irreverence. As yet another sweet strike soared past the bleachers, John hoped that playful sense of humour, such an integral part of his character, would never change.

He _had_ changed, of course. Both of them had. John knew he'd be naïve, _and_ stupid, to think otherwise. Yet the ordeals they'd both been through had, if anything, made their friendship even stronger.

Their memories were still raw, though. Both of them still had a lot of talking, _and_ healing, to do. And, just days ago, Michael Garibaldi's still vulnerable spirits had taken an alarming nosedive. But after what he'd done today, what he'd proven to doubting sceptics, and especially to himself – yes, it was amazing how a little appreciation, and a new sense of purpose, could turn all that around.

So as he watched Babe Garibaldi happily swinging that bat, John now found it impossible not to laugh. This was the happiest, and most settled, that he'd been in a long time. John just hoped it would last.

*whack*

"Whoooo-eeeee!"

Well, it would last for tonight, at least. And tomorrow? Well, that was still twelve hours away.

'_Maybe by that time_, _I_'_ll get __my__ turn on the plate-_'

Still grinning at that thought, John then frowned slightly as a familiar voice broke into the silence.

"So anyway, I got to thinking. You know, about what Clemens said in those voicemails? I realized all that stuff he said, about Lincoln, and Roosevelt, had to relate to you, and…well, _then_ I figured if he'd planned it all so well, he'd know about your interest in Lincoln, so…"

"…you made the connection between Lincoln's war and ours-" John finished for him, his laughter for the thwarted glare on Michael's face quickly turning to a wiser, safer cough.

He felt a bit guilty for denying his friend the big finish that he'd been clearly gearing up for. Then again, he knew what Michael was like, once he got going, and quiet laughter returned. Even at top Garibaldi-speed, those colourful adventures in Grey 17 had taken up an entire evening. Trying to interrupt him, as John had wryly discovered, had been a waste of time. So it was a surprise, and a relief, when he realized that Michael's pinballing thoughts had already pinged elsewhere.

"Hey, did you know there was a General Sheridan in Lincoln's army?"

"Yes, I did. Philip Sheridan. In fact, we're related-" John grinned, not even trying to keep the pride out of his voice. "He was my - well, _very _distant grandfather-"

"No kidding!" Michael stared at him, suitably impressed, then smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Mine was still in Italy, so there weren't any Garibaldis on _that_ battlefield-"

"If there had been, my friend, that war would have been over a _lot_ sooner-"

"Yeah, maybe," Michael agreed, frowning for a moment, before he unleashed a burst of laughter. "Jeez, can you imagine _me_ on a horse?"

John's eyebrows raised at that as he studied his friend. Six three in his socks, and built like a barn. Hell, you'd have had to feel sorry for the horse.

Still laughing too much to reply, deciding it would be safer not to, John then grew more serious – thoughts of one of his hero's unsung champions bringing him, inevitably, to thoughts of his own. His faithful, unflappable lieutenant who, as now, just never stopped surprising him.

"I guess this was _our_ Gettysburg. I mean, going up against Clark, fighting our own to defeat him-"

"Yes, that was our turnpoint, Michael. The battle we _had_ to win to end his tyranny, and win back not just our freedom, but Earth's too-" John agreed – inspired, as he'd often been, by his hero's most famous speech as he squeezed his friend's shoulder.

"_That's_ what we fought him for, Michael. Freedom. Government _of_ the people, _by_ the people, for the people-"

"Yeah, that was one of my dad's favourite speeches-" Michael replied quietly, allowing himself a wistful smile for his own, lifelong inspiration, before he re-met John's eyes. "I know you never met him, John, but - yeah, he'd have liked you-"

The master of tactful silence, John didn't reply straight away. Instead he just smiled and nodded, giving his friend's shoulder a gentle squeeze, for the loss that he still felt so deeply.

"I'd have liked him too-" he said at last, pushing the pain of Anna's memory aside, in new hope for what he, _and _his friend, had survived.

They'd both suffered such pain, and such devastating loss. But there was still much to celebrate, so much still to do. And how fitting that it was Michael Garibaldi, B5's indefatigable survivor, who now lifted the mood between them, as only he could.

"Still, he'd have had something to say about all this standing around, and none of it would have been polite. So, Mr President, what say that you and I enjoy our new freedom, while we can?"

"My thoughts exactly, Mr Garibaldi-" John chuckled, slapping his friend's back in happy anticipation as the auto-pitcher in front of them whirred back into life.

Yes, both of them still had a hell of a lot of work to do. And yes, he _still _couldn't get onto that damn plate. But as he watched Michael Garibaldi whack his latest pitch towards the starfield beyond, John Sheridan still felt a smile of complete happiness spread across his face.

They were both alive to fight another day - and they'd face that day in a new birth of freedom.


End file.
